


Corrupt.

by impracticallyperfect (whynotfour)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV), Peaky Blinders RPF
Genre: Cheating, Corruption, Crime, F/M, Multi, Sex, Violence, modern!peaky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-04 11:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18342479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whynotfour/pseuds/impracticallyperfect
Summary: When John Shelby comes back into your life it's not just the boundaries of the law that are tested but also your marriage."Just as long as you know that he'll never be able to fuck you the way I do."[modern!john, sexual themes & violence]





	1. Chapter 1

‘Coffee?’

The grey bubble of his text blurs behind the lids of your eyes even as you try to block it out. Coffee. Since when did you do fucking coffee? Childhood sweethearts, it’s a biannual tradition to split a bottle or three of gin in a pub where nobody knows your name – a hotel where you pretend to be Mr and Mrs Wilson – but never meet-ups between or texts that consist of anything other than booking information. This is wrong. Its three months until you’re due to meet again, your husband still in town and preoccupied with some new gang that has his station run ragged as they lock more of these thugs up. You know it’s something to do with home - ironically all to do with John and his wrongens of a family – dragging the man you’re trying to share your life with away from you at all hours of the day.

It’s three in the morning and you’re still thinking of a reply hoping he can’t see the dots appear and disappear every time you tap on the backspace. It’s nothing sexual or it would be alcohol he’s inviting you for, pure innocence if it’s during daylight hours. You’re not giving consent to anything that could threaten his marriage or yours if you just say yes. Old school friends talking about children and careers that is all. Reminiscing about the past not stuck in the present with each other’s bodies.

‘Where and at what time?’

He replies back with an address thirty minutes across town, a bunch of new builds you’d actively campaigned against and a small commercial centre with more Starbucks than local businesses. Twelve hours’ time you realise after counting them out. Public and on display, exactly where you would be forced to behave. The snore of your husband reminds you of how your life is nothing more than that; behaving. You need John, the excitement of your six monthly liaisons and the danger that comes with them. You need him more than you’ve ever needed any other man in your whole life.

Your hands slip between your legs thinking of the static that comes with his beard as he helps you out of your thigh highs, the way its roughness draws down your ankles as he hooks each one over his shoulders making you bend your knees as he crawls up the mattress. The way you gasp as he flicks the bands of your suspender belt whilst biting at the apex of your thighs each side in turn. He treats your body like it’s made of marble, appreciating each and every variation of marks as he kisses your skin. His tongue is always warm and wet, as comforting between your legs as his lips wrapped around your clit. The first man you’d ever been with and the only one to understand your body.

You let your fingers try and mimic his mouth, the other hand trying to block out the heaviness of your breathing as the man you’re married to sleeps with his back to your arching form. Even when he pays you attention he can’t get you in that state of your Birmingham boy, one word however mundane more effective than years of what he would call dirty talk. All you have to do is think about how loud John had made you, the way the headboard hit the wall with every thrust of his hips and you’re tightening around your knuckles and trying hard not to cry out for him.

Coffee. What harm could one cup do?

 

 

You’re not sure how long you sit in the car for, the text from your husband telling you that he won’t be home for dinner more infuriating than you could ever expect it to be. You’re about to meet another man, albeit innocently, but still you understand that you hardly have the moral authority to be so outraged by him working late again. The second week of thirteen-hour shifts is starting to frustrate not just your marriage but your sex life too, however stagnant it might be. Your hands beat the steering wheel and the lights of the parking garage make the platinum of your wedding band look orange as it clings to the leather stitching and your head falls against the horn without even intending too as you debate just taking it off.

A tap at the window makes your heart race, shocked that somebody has seen your outburst, but then you see his face all smile and sin just waiting for your lips and reservations of what this could mean in the long run get forgotten.

“You alright there, love?” he asks, voice muffled by the glass as you watch him reach for the handle at the same time as you go to let yourself out of the car. “Looks like you need that coffee more than I do.”

It’s almost instinct to wrap your arms around each other, his nose lost in the familiar smell of your shampoo as yours settles on the collar of a weathered button-up and the cologne that intoxicates you every time, “You have no idea.”

The simplicity of a single touch makes you want to cry, a flood of emotions you don’t fully comprehend rushing through you as John’s hand pushes your head further into the crook of his neck. A phrase you’d never heard of before last week floats to your mind, ‘touch starved’, and you’ve never fitted the definition so perfectly then when he breaks the hold to look at your face up close. Age suits you perfectly, twenty years since you first met at the tender ages of eight and nine on the playground of St Clements, but the lines around your lips and eyes bring character to features he has always admired. John never seems to age in comparison, the only difference to when you last saw him the length of his beard, grown out half an inch longer so that it makes him look more of a man. You don’t ever want to look away.

“Coffee?”

“Coffee,” you agree, bending to take your key out of the ignition and your bag from the passenger seat wondering if his eyes are really raking over your figure like you think they are or if it’s all wishful thinking. “I was surprised you text.”

“So was I,” John’s words have their usual ring of laughter clinging to them but his hands fidget nervously as he walks by your side to the exit, unsure of where to place them when you’re playing so close to home. “Been thinking of you though.”

You want to pry but you choose not to ask why knowing that he’ll tell you in his own time as he gets the door to the stairwell so you don’t have to. The click of your heels as you walk up the concrete path makes you feel overdressed, always eager to impress him but John doesn’t comment on them nor the dress too nice for Italy let alone this corner of the city. His jeans feel lacking in comparison, the Chelsea boots pretentious given the sunshine waiting outside. He wanted to do better than trainers and these had been his best option given how little notice he had left himself with.

It was a miracle you had even said yes, he couldn’t give you time to talk sense back into yourself.

The walk is underrun by a current of tension and his eyes are nervous when they keep flitting over to you. He avoids the cracks in the pavement, stepping over three tiles at a time as you try not to laugh and it takes more effort than it should to not call him out on his superstitious behaviour. John would never admit that he is scared of jinxing whatever it is that comes from today, he himself doesn’t even know what that will be nor what he wants it to be.

“They really do like their brands, huh?” you say as the ludicrosity of logos start to replace the old office buildings where you had first worked when you came down South.

“High street is dead anyway, isn’t it?”

It’s weird to have a conversation so tame - what’s next politics and the weather? - but you’re both working hard not to put a single foot wrong. By the time you reach the coffee shop, both of you want to sigh in relief, pretending not to notice the other scanning for someone they might know. 

“I’ll get it,” John says before you reach the counter, the person in front arguing over cup sizes as the barista debates throwing his coffee over him. “What d’ya want?”

“It’s fine, let me.”

“No, honestly I dragged you out here,” he plays the guilt card as you roll your eyes at his tactics, searching the board before settling on your usual order. “You’re not one of those girls who have Soya are you?”

“Lactose is a real threat apparently-”

“More like makes their Instagram more interesting,” John says, stepping up to the counter as you bite your tongue from saying that his wife is one of those girls he apparently loathes.

You let him order for you both, his eyes looking over you as he says your portion of the order waiting for you to correct him but you need not to. He reaches for his wallet and goes to pay with card before hesitating and taking out a few bundles of notes instead. You try not to notice that there’s enough there to pay forward the days entire customers - you would say week’s but this is Starbucks and you’re realistic - and John pretends not to see your eyes widen as he hastily hands over too many and tells the cashier to put the rest in the tip jar. Her eyes perk up and she tells him that she’ll have them brought over if you just want to take a seat. You think money really does get you anything.

“So business is going well?” you ask as his hand goes to your lower back guiding you to the far corner.

“That obvious?”

“Still in the family trade?”

“Your husband got that promotion I see. Saw it in the paper, you must be very proud,” you know he says it out of instinct to protect himself from criticism of the Shelby name but still feels a low blow given the situation. “He let you take his car today did he?”

Your eyebrows raise at that last part, the casual sexism bringing up the thing in you that most men fear but not John. No John simply lets the ever-present curve of his lips break to allow for a laugh to slip out, his hand reaching for yours across the table.

“You know I’m just messing with you, seen you handle bigger beasts than an Audi.”

You bite your tongue to stop yourself from referencing your other skill set although with him it’s useless, he already knows what goes on in your head. His thumb rubs over your knuckles softly and your cheeks flush as you try to pull it back thinking of where they’d been hours before pleasuring yourself to the thought of him. All John can do is raise an eyebrow, questioning you wordlessly about your lack of affection when the barista interrupts to deliver your drinks.

You feel embarrassed for her as she waits for John to give her his attention, clearly not taking for granted what you’re pretending to but then he moves his left hand to above the mug twisting his wedding band until she notices his and in turn yours. To the outside world, you’re the ones together, she’s the one imposing on a marriage. She excuses herself by referencing an imaginary queue and you’re polite enough to thank her even though she has done little to deserve it.

“Why are we here, John?”

“I told you. Been thinkin’ about you,” he shrugs lifting the cup to his lips which definitely does not make you jealous of the cheap china. “Am I not allowed to?”

“We are married,” you hiss, looking over his shoulder to check nobody else can hear even though little to it would raise eyebrows nor suspicions. 

“That’s not my fault is it?”

You want to take the napkin dispenser and beat him over the head with it for that line. Fighting the urge with remarkable self-control to correct him, ‘well actually John Shelby yes it bloody well is’.

“Thought you might have missed me too,” he’d almost look vulnerable if his face wasn’t naturally smug and you close your eyes for a moment trying to convince him and yourself that before last night he had been far from your radar. “Just needed to see you.”

“We both know you wanted more than just to see me.”

He laughs, gesturing to your cup as he speaks, “We’re having coffee aren’t we?”

“Means nothing,” you shrug your shoulders leaning in slightly. “I know the way your brain works, John. You’ve probably already sussed the toilets out.”

“Was thinking that stairwell actually, bet your voice would echo like an angel,” the way he says it so casually makes your thighs clench but you pretend he’s had no effect when you lean back.

“In your dreams.”

“Every fuckin’ night, love.”

You swallow your coffee for something to do other than falling into his trap, his eyes never straying from your mouth even once you’ve set the cup back down.

“If you didn’t want to you wouldn’t have come.”

“I thought it was urgent,” you lie.

“It is urgent,” he chuckles once again, his hand reaching across the table to cup your jaw and despite your hand clasping around his wrist his index finger still runs against your bottom lip. “I urgently need to feel that mouth of yours.”

 

He didn’t know how to respond when you got up from the table, so quick to cross the room that you attracted the attention of other patrons making him apologise on your behalf before chasing after you. Neither of you could afford to cause a scene so he fought the urge to call your name as he hit the pavements behind you, cursing the fact that his time is usually spent between restaurants and desks when you sink into the multistory before he can catch you. The height of the tower he’d admired earlier for its ability to carry sound now makes him curse as he hears your footsteps exit onto the parking level and he lets himself break into a sprint to try and catch you before you can drive away along with what’s left of your relationship if John could even call it that. 

He catches you fumbling in your bag for the keys, walking towards you as you swear beneath your breath desperate to preserve what little is left of your morals. Twice a year is one thing but this close to your own doorstep when you could be seen by anyone is just cruel to those you’re supposed to love. You find the fob and manage to unlock the door before his hand stops it from opening.

“You’re not leaving.”

 

“Fuck off, Shelby,” you spit, the use of his last name a bitter blow considering that’s what drove you apart in the first place.

You try to force the handle but his strength outweighs yours, offering enough of a weakness for him to defeat your defensive position as he pushes you back until you’re cemented between his body and the passenger door. You can feel his breath on your skin and you cower away even though you know that he’d never do a thing to hurt you. His lips hover mere inches away but he won’t kiss you, not until you kiss him. 

Your chest heaves as it presses to his, every thought swirling your head of him, the past, the present, your spouses, the future; “It’s not right.”

“No it’s not,” is all he manages to say before temptation takes hold and you reach your mouth up to catch his.

 

 

Your back stuck between the steering wheel and John’s crotch you have no option other than to press your chest to his, hungry lips meeting your collarbones whilst you fumble blindly for the lever that allows the seat to recline. His arms tie loosely around your waist as he removes one heel and then the other, gripping your hip with one hand as he tosses them into the passenger seat not caring if they scuff the leather interior. It’s this hand that makes you push down harder against his lap when the chair finally gives in and reclines, his teeth sinking into the flesh of your neck due to the sudden addition of your weight to his torso. You moan at the pleasure the pain provides and you can feel his cock throbs inside his jeans on reflex at the noise; desperate to have you make it again as he grabs roughly at your hair to get to the other side. At the moment he’s too caught up to think about the marks that you’ll have to explain away and it takes your hand threading around his throat to force John to look at you once more, seeing dominance come and go in your eyes.

“He’ll notice,” you say, breathless as he forces your hips to grind against his with only the denim of his trousers and lace of your underwear preventing you from getting what you both need.

“Fuck it, let him,” you tighten your grip at his attitude, squeezing harder as his pupils dilate and his tongue touches against his bottom lip as his eyes roll back. “Don’t look at me like that girl, you knew what you’re gettin’ into.”

You push his head to one side as you free him, too desperate to hold your frustration when his hips buck into you. It’s hard to be mad as he takes the opportunity to move south to your chest, nipping and sucking love bites onto your breasts as you continue to rock your hips against him. Something about being in a car with John beneath you, takes you back to the nights you would spend together as teens parked up in the back end of nowhere fumbling around in the car he’d stolen from his brother - too desperate to touch each other to actually get out of the town let alone run off and start your new lives together as you promised. At seventeen you would never believe you’d have to be sneaking around like this again but life often comes full circle and you were sure that this time it wouldn’t be Arthur and Tommy coming after you both.

Your focus turns to the buckle of his belt, unnecessarily running your fingers against John whilst he’s still clothed just to make him groan the way you’ve so desperately missed and he responds in kind by slapping the hand that has snaked beneath your dress against your arse. You take too long for his liking and soon his slapping away your hands instead, making light work of the buckle and the buttons of his jeans. You move to pull them down, eager to feel him back in your mouth where he belongs but he shakes his head when you make eye contact allowing you only pull down his trousers and underwear enough to release his aching cock.

“Need to come inside of you, won’t be able to last,” you take it as a compliment, moving back up to his lips as he grabs your hips helping guide you into position.

One of your hands gets lost in his hair as the other slips between your legs, dipping into your wetness before running it along the length of John’s cock. He moans at the feeling of your warm hand pumping around him and begs you to ride him in a voice so sinful you can’t refuse any longer. The burning heat as you sink onto him makes your vision go dark for a moment and he kisses whatever skin he can reach until you are ready to move. You move your hips slowly at first as you get used to the feeling of having John back inside of you after so long apart but it doesn’t take long for the familiar rhythm to come back, your breathing starting to steam the windows every time you hit a certain spot. 

Having endured so much to get to this moment it’s clear that neither of you will be able to last long, your body soon buckling with pleasure and taking John’s arms to keep you at the same angle to make the most of your high. Your eyes try to roll back but he tells you to look at him as you pant his name, surrendering all control of your body as you fall apart. It doesn’t take much more than feeling you come around him, saying the name that belongs in your mouth, for him to tumble over the edge himself; not even caring about the marks you’ve warned him against when his fingers bruise your hips and he unravels inside of you. If you’re going home full of his cum then what difference do a couple of purple marks make anyway?

 

 

Laying atop of John’s chest you know that it’s not right to get attached to moments such as these, wrong to the highest degree when he wraps your hair around his fingers and you get lost in the sound of his breathing as it returns to normal. The distant purr of engines does little to distract from the feeling of his skin against yours, warm and comforting compared to the cool touch of the leather beneath your entwined bodies. He smiles to himself softly and you try to do the same by pushing away the fear you feel inside. John says something about the time but neither of you makes any attempts to move until the sound of a phone’s vibrations rocks through the car alongside his curses at realising that it is his.

You reluctantly climb from his lap into the passenger seat, pushing your underwear back into position and smoothing your skirt over whilst he searches for the lost iPhone. His lips fumble around another string of curse words and your heart rises to your throat fearing the worst, wondering how you can recover from this if it’s Esme but your heart rate plunges back down the second John says; “Tommy?”

“It’s Arthur, John,” you hear the family’s leader say, accent thick under pressure when it pours through the phone. “They’ve got fucking Arthur.”


	2. Chapter Two.

John leaves your life again just as quickly as he’d come back into it, the screech of his tires blurring out whatever he’s shouting into the hands-free system when he spins past you. It’s not that easy in your mind especially not when you take a call of your own, fighting with the temptation of sending him to voicemail as your husband's name and number fills the screen. 

“The strike worked,” you haven’t heard his voice so happy for a long while, the contrast between him and John stark as you think back to the ‘got to go see Tommy’ that he’d grumbled upon leaving you without so much as a kiss. “We got one of their top blokes, he didn’t even see it coming. You should see the body cam footage - well obviously you can’t but I gave the call as they raided it and we caught him.”

You can taste the smugness in his voice, hear the way his hands rub together in glee as he tells you about the bloke taken down for processing and holding times that you yourself know by heart, “I’m on my way home now, will probably spend the night between my desk and the on-call room there’s no point in giving up now.”

Barely registering the words all you can think of is the teenage boy hell-bent on protecting his brother from your father's rage, the way that he would always tell you that it was nothing personal as he dropped you home whilst Tommy would let you stew in silence, feeling worse than you ever thought possible.

“I thought maybe I could spare five minutes and celebrate with you.”

You’re unprepared to come up with a lie, the truth slipping before you can catch it, “I’m not home.”

“Where? Didn’t say you were going out,” he says and you fight the urge to reply that he didn’t ask as you bend the truth.

“I met an old friend for coffee,” your cheeks heat trying to think of a name you’re unlikely to forget and John’s aunt is the first to mind. “Remember Polly? She was at our wedding,” she definitely wasn’t but he had as little do with planning your marriage as he does maintain it.

“Yeah, I remember her,” liar. “Well be safe, yeah? Some right weirdos hanging around.”

“Okay I’ve got to go - parking wardens coming,” it feels like routine to try and slip from the call, your foot restarting the motor automatically as he says goodbye, trying to drown out the lies of ‘I love you’.

Your foot eases off of the clutch as soon as the screen shows it’s disconnected the call and your head that would usually be cushioned by the stitching of the wheels cover now hits the metal logo in its centre too hard where you haven’t returned the seat to its usual position. The tight space blurs out your scream, echoing around your car but gaining as little attention as your own outburst when it fades.

What mess have you got yourself into?

 

\---

 

John doesn’t even have time to greet the staff as he’s ushered to Tommy’s office by a harried-looking Finn, the younger boys language more than a little colourful when he curses out the inspector that seems to have declared war, “The boys say it was fucking brutal - Arthur tried to fight back but the coppers got a few blows in. Tommy says they got lucky - fucking lucky they had handcuffs more like otherwise Arthur would have fucking had ‘em all.”

“Alright, Finn,” John’s handclaps against his brothers back roughly. “We’ll get it sorted.”

The door to Tommy’s office is ajar, Polly’s voice spilling out as she asks how they could have been so stupid to get their own hands dirty. “I get it, Pol, we messed up.”

“Messed up is not realising you’ve buttoned your bloody shirt wrong, not getting thrown in the nick, Thomas!”

His brother looks up in relief as John walks into the room, his keys and wallet tossed to one side as he strides towards Tommy’s desk and the battle plans he knows will be getting drawn up. “What happened?”

“Shipment got held up at the warehouse, Arthur went down there to find out what happened-“

“On your brother’s fucking orders.”

“Alright, Pol,” Tommy holds a hand in her direction trying to silence her before turning back to John. “Was a setup, they came in and raided the place. Lawyer says that the smart thing to do would be to plead guilty.”

“And you?”

The paperwork comes into focus as Tommy looks down making John follow him, “Got the name of the bloke in charge, bulletproof reputation.”

His stomach turns seeing your last name in print, the panic of everyone else not connecting the two together when you’ve only ever been mentioned in passing since the days back at Watery Lane and even then only by your maiden name, “Spoke to our boys on the force they say he’s a hard one to crack.”

“I may know someone.”

Tommy’s surprise is enough to set John on the back foot, police business and connections something that they discuss openly to avoid situations like this, “You said anything to them?”

“Yes Tommy, I told her about the whole of the fucking Mayfair Operation,” his tone drips with sarcasm but it’s no relief to his aunt as she mumbles something about his cock getting them into more trouble. “We can trust her alright?”

Tommy looks his brother square in the face, neither man backing down as John refuses to reveal her identity. “What do you need?”

—

The garage’s inside is just as dingy as you’d expect, a dreary mixtape beating on from where the workers are valeting your husband's car - oblivious to what’s caused the stains you’re so eager to have removed. Out of place in your clothing, it’s the receptionist that keeps glaring at you from across the room, your emotions too messy to let you confront her even though you’re sure a fist to somebody else’s face would cure your world of its problems right now. 

You ache to text John, reach out and check that Arthur has the best of legal counsel, but you know the idea is just as stupid as having spent the afternoon with him - having let yourself sink onto his cock as he sunk back into your mind. Instead, you use social media to find out more facts, the internet your personal detective when it comes to working out just what the Shelby boys have got themselves into. A search of John’s name brings up pictures of him with his wife, two fair-haired kids - Katie and Edward you know from the way that their father had spoken with such fondness after their respective births - at their feet and you exit the search before you can even look at Esme’s face. 

‘Thomas Shelby’ fills the field in his place, the top hit the tragedy of his wife’s untimely death at the hands of a former business associate making you pity the man you knew from your youth even if there had never been anything other than bad bloodshed between the two of you. John had been there that night, your getaway pushed back as he told you over the phone about the horrific attack and the son that Grace had left behind; the toddler was taken on by his uncles as his father struggled to cope and you knew that was partly why the family had followed you to London - Small Heath home to too many memories.

The funeral had been a sombre affair, sobering in a way that it shouldn’t have been as you snuck into the back row hiding your presence from the grieving family and swearing Harry to secrecy as you joined the community in mourning. You had never met Grace, the stories coming from John painting her in a dark light as he and his relatives struggled to get over her betrayal of Freddie Thorne, the man that had been more loyal to the Shelby’s than she could ever be. It wasn’t the impact of seeing others sad that hurt you, used to that from police funerals you’d been forced to attend when your father was the local force’s commander and now that you were functioning as the wife of a serving officer grief was a constant in your life, no it was none of that but rather a realisation that you didn’t have the right to make.

You had sat in the car park just outside of Birmingham, too distressed to continue your drive as the thought rattling around your mind grew larger until it consumed all space and was screaming at you for acknowledgement; any encounter with John could be your last when his family were still operating beyond the constraints of the law. You would read of his death in the paper, have your husband celebrate the loss of life and in his eulogy, you would be forgotten, written off as an old friend and not the woman who had always loved him even when the world wanted to keep you apart.

That same realisation hits you again now, his life restricted to prison before a guard is bribed to turn the other way as your husband’s justice is served - the officer that had died months ago as he intervened in Shelby business avenged with a beating and slit throat forged to look like the work of a fellow inmate. You can feel the coffee you had barely managed to drink in John’s presence threatening to appear once more and rushing from the office to get fresh air only causes the receptionist to yell after you about payment, not caring that it felt as if your chest was being weighed down by rocks and your head forced into the buckets of cleaning solution when anxiety overtakes you.

 

\---

 

Blackout blinds do little to deprive your senses, the radio turned to easy listening for the over 40s as you huddle under the duvet with a hot water bottle pressed to your stomach. The shower having run cold before you had found the energy to step out of it, you were certain that without Craig, the dealership’s owner, you would still have been sat on the curb unable to move much less drive and it had taken all of your strength just to put fresh clothing on as you sink into the mattress. A ‘friend’ of the force and your husband, he had insisted on driving you home himself - the lads dropping the car around later once they’d finished working on it - seeing you to the sofa with a cup of tea as he offered to call your ‘other half’, surprised by how you had refused, thanking him for all he had done and offering him cash in exchange for the extra work. 

“Just tell your husband he owes me one,” is all he’d said, the touch of his lips to your cheek telling you that their relationship was far from the norms of informant and officer but you were too focused on the thought of losing John once more - this time permanently - to care about that.

Instead, you had ensured the door was bolted, stripped yourself of clothing and washed away the physical symptoms of your anxiety attack and love affair alongside it.

You slip between sleep and nothingness, the grief feeling like it’s already taken a grip in your heart and it takes your phone screen’s light filling the room and a familiar name to tell you that it’s your head messing with you, “John?”

“Hey - what’s happened?” the broken sound of your voice stirs something within him, determination is frozen by panic at the thought of you hurt and it takes a lie about some romcom to get him to continue. “I know that now is probably not the best time but can I come over?”


End file.
